The Fallen
by Ellered
Summary: Series of introspective one shots. All casts. M for later chapters.
1. Vossler, Ashe, Ghis

Fandom: FFXII  
Characters: mostly Ashe, Vossler, Judge Ghis.  
Rating: PG  
Title: The Fall  
summary: takes place after Raithwall's tomb, into the Dreadnought, before Vossler's fall. That's it.

_Judge Ghis:_ _Your Majesty does not disappoint. _

_Ever quick to spurn an honorable surrender, as was your father. _

* * *

Ashe was walking a little too fast. She could, if she wanted, walk further ahead with a little more force than intended. She had been thinking, and it would seem that was all she has been doing. Though, the entirety of her party kept looking to her for answers. As if she knew everything.

_Didn't they know?_ She wasn't ready to reveal anything. _How could she?_ She needed to know more, to find answers along the way.

She closed her eyes tight: the exterior -- under shadow gave way for the eyes to adjust; to take the desert's sharp kiss. Weariness hung in her soft sighs, her hand fisted, her once imperial shoes-- dulled and scratched, treading through the interior's terrain as if she were on the polished floors of her palace.

The trek out of Raithwall wasn't too bad; if not for the fact that everyone was counting on her to enact the seal: to cut what was to be. They couldn't know, not understand what she had seen. Only that Vaan had seen, or did he? He seemed to have followed her move, where her eyes had seen – and others couldn't.

They couldn't know what her heart was feeling. Because, she was tired; exhausted from hiding; to be shoved away while the world was going at a rate that she couldn't get on to catch. She had been hiding too long—the company she bore: humes and scattered races who rushed to defend what she and Vossler held on to.

Her courage was always there: she would have liked to do just that: to cut away, but another thing was a bother.

The long straight line out of the shade was covered with an even larger silhouette. She couldn't know how betrayal would pierce her heart. And a darker, heavier shadow would stain her eyes, wet under the outline of perfidy.

A rush of wind swept up, from the high-speed aircraft, hovering, landing with smooth deliverance.

The red carpet has been rolled out, ending at the front of her foot. "Your majesty." A voice, so false, pretentious, and cultured came from under the looming helm and armour.

Mute, she couldn't feel surprise any longer, the way these Archadians deem themselves so forward. What did she think? She had not realized how they found themselves this far in the desert; how long they've waited while she, and her companions were fighting through demon walls.

"How nice," she said, refraining much, "of you to greet us in such a fashion, your generosity is commendable; how oft' does your lord grant your wishes?" Ashe allowed her eyes to scan the Dreadnought with perfect implication.

The Judge's face kept the false pretense, the severity of his expression etched out a smile big enough to show teeth, his helm by his side, "My lady should not give us so much cause for worry," he droned on, watching her as a hawk does, waited until the members of her party entered into the ship securely.

He meant with intent, to ignore her glacial comment.

She passed him, facing forward, acknowledging only the direction she was pushed towards to. The shadow of the ship's interior greeted her, making her eyes adjust again to the dusk, as was in the tomb.

She could hear her companions behind her – Vaan's louder conversation to Penelo, his blunt remarks on the 'capture,' of how 'sneaky' these Archadians were, as if that was some sort of revelation. Fran and Balthier were walking side by side, always a pair – quiet, somber looks at each other, whispering something in secret; and, her Knights: Basch and Vossler taking up the rear.

She felt then, without looking down -- almost _too _accountable, her heart swelling.

* * *

**_Vossler: I do not share your Majesty's trust._**

The Judge, called Ghis, officiant of the 13th Bureau: Lord Vayne's commander of the Dreadnought Leviathan. He looked too proud, too sure of himself of the capture of these prisoners. And rightly so. Even after the last hume embarked on the steel sliding plank, he nodded to Vossler: the last passenger to step foot.

It was only then that he managed to give a compulsory nod to the Dalmascan knight wearing armour in this desert heat. Glad to hear the ship's metal door sliding up, slow; the whirl of machine winding up to close them off from the weather, into the cooling artificial air within.

"Her majesty has a tongue on her that needs to be tamed," he told the younger man, in passing, "Were you not with her for two long years?"

Vossler paused, careful that his companions could not hear, "Aye, and two long years have I waited for her to use her crown with pride."

"And she shall," the Judge remarked in a low hushed voice, "Care that she takes the offer willingly, or her friends meet the gallows all too quick."

"I care not for what happens to the others." The Knight offered in return, his sharp blue eyes straying to the thieves ahead filing in line, looking confused, "Just take heed that no harm comes to her majesty, and the Knights of Dalmasca protect her."

As he walked further, the doors shut behind him, he could not know….nor could he see through the blinders he had placed up. All this time, searching for a way out, seeking to fulfill his ladyship's wishes: So that she could rule without the burden of cost to her country; without the war over her head, so that the profits would come.

Yes, she would see, as he has been able to.

He could not really know, of what waited. He had steeled his heart far too long; the tired lines around his eyes crept up to him, wearing his patience too thin.

It was only then that the Judge whispered, before turning, "Rather, it is _you, _that should take heed. Pray that her majesty finds wearing her Dalmascan crown under Archadia's banner more pleasing, than the_ passion _she feels when she knows who sold her country for a _profitable crown_."

Vossler shut his eyes, tight. The sternness of his mouth; the steady rise and fall of his chest; the beating drum beneath his armour blurred everything.

He was lightheaded for a moment.

Then the reason came back, and he was ready, he was sure: she would see that he meant well, and it was for the best.

* * *


	2. Gabranth, Ashe, Reddas

* * *

_**FFXII: Ashe, Gabranth, Reddas  
**Scene: Pharos in the game  
Title: One on one  
Certainly Artistic license used.  
Rating: Pg-13_

* * *

_It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. --  
William Blake_

* * *

"Why do you hesitate?"

The hurricane around them seethed; yet, it coursed, strident; it drew back against the pillars, advancing in and out like a hovering bird of prey; protesting with a jangle of internal bells, lacerated through iron and living tissue alike .

"Lady Ashe, I slew your king, I slew your country, do these deeds demand vengeance?"

Yes!_ Yes! _Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she wanted, _oh she wanted…._

And if it were weeks before, even two years before, where her sorrow yawned; her grief intense, the rawness would forever smolder her gut –tearing flesh apart to reach to her father's true murderer.

His hands, they were readying, beside the pillar, he stood; his voice traced no regrets, no turning back; as if he too were waiting for this: Ashelia B'Nargin of Dalmasca, he knew had been set up for this ageless moment.

It was time.

She was for the present, raging faithfully, as true as the storm outside, deepening her eyes—sharpened against the falling shadow, her mouth pliant with careful coordination. Willful hands gripped the hilt, sweat forming along the fragility of her brow, daring the electric energy around her; breasts lifted in passionate display through the misted interior; a heady sensational thrill surrounded her, within the tower above the perilous cliffs.

And the pirate with the pinkish-pale pants, bearing double swords crossed blades bought from Balfonheim, true steel and rarer because of the spoils from treasures deeper in Ivalice's depths; further locked away in the clouds among floating continents too far, too wide to reach for the common man.

"…..Cid ordered this of him, to learn of the Nethicite's true power…"

The pirate looked over the twin blades, pushed back by the younger man, and he cried out, "Try as we might, Gabranth, but history's chains bind us too tightly!"

Reddas received only a disgusted grunt from his former comrade, and was shoved neatly aside. Upon the floor, swept in marble and graceful designs circling as the shards and the stones from the Occuria.

"Judge Zecht..." Gabranth lifted his chin, let his eyes linger, drinking in the man's presence.

"Do the dead not demand it?" The Judge Magister repeated, to Ashelia this time, ignoring the former Judge he once dined and fought alongside with. His eyes searched the woman, finding something there in similar fashion.

_Was there any revenge left in her?_

Where was the fire he saw before climbing the peak to get to her?

So, he had waited, came out of hiding, where she was tending the power-drenched blade in her hand, shining and streaming with mystical energy.

She was not even angry—not anymore—because all the anger had been used up; to slap and spit daggers to a man who wore the same face as the murderer of her father.

It wasn't because she was non-plussed at the implicative suggestion, perfect though it be—to strike him where he stood—arrogant bastard in the flesh, in metal and cold blood; all steel and acrimony, with the commandment on his side; however, twisted and corrupt it may be.

"What of your broken kingdom's shame?" He urged, voice muffled deep in the signature helm. Armour bearing horns and sharp edges, clanked with a mightier sound when he had produced the phallic whiplash weapon—lethal in its owner's embrace.

She breathed, the sound soft and breathy, her parted lips sensual under the gripping power of the Pharos's mist. It was then that she held fast to Gabranth's eyes, "What's done is done," her movements, languid and visceral.

The past is gone, she told him, closing the gap between them; and Gabranth, that was what he was named, by the grace of Reddas's call; by the voice now occupied by the man-the knight- she respected, again, now more than ever before.

She stepped closer, under the storm of seduction, where the winds of the Pharos's secrets were whipping by, slashing across their drawn faces; forlorn; destructive; heated breaths lingering close; and the clash of Dalmascan true heir and the man with murder in his hands, stared endless in verdict.

Her hands were hot, not a trickle of sweat clung, because the air was crackling above them; against her hair, forming pale strands against her pale cheeks. The sun cryst vibrated like a machine, pumping through with orange and white lightning—as if drawing the very existence of the Pharos's lighthouse into its soul.

When she was close enough, unafraid of her father's murderer, aware of the face of Basch; aware of the kindness, the protection and love he had given her through out the journey.

And in those final moments, she was filled with a forgiveness not unknown to her heart.

The ball, closed off from the light and permission darkened dull, rolled straight to his feet. Its finality became a severe blow, and the Judge unsheathed his sword, steel sliding out—bitterness drenched in its pointed aggressive hum.

She couldn't know, no, not when the Occuria had always planned, before she brought her merry group climbing the Pharos; they were closed off with the mist, thickened as a dividing wall between.

Cut off from the rest—so that the true test of fortification and decree, hung between the three.

Reddas was full of fight, because he could not forget the haunted faces of Nabudis, his heart severed by the mere thought of it; he would not strike down Gabranth unless he had to; to shield those from his former resolution, ignorant though it was, under Cid's orders.

He could even understand the need, the drive of this twin, who bore the same striking profile as the knight; brother against brother; enemies under different flags; and he would take his sword to stop the bleeding.

"Gabranth," Zecht cried out, panting, lifting himself easily off the smooth floor, "I know what it is you feel in your heart; I too was under the direction of Cid's command; but you, your duties are stamped higher in that you're cut off from this farce; you're honour bound to your Emperor, his death was only an illusion; your loyalty to him was truer than any who had ever served under him."

Noah growled, baring teeth within the helm, eyes blinking back the storming atmospheric cyclone that surrounded them.

Even as the Occurrian idly watched, faint debris between the stones and the mist clung and held; the ancient wanderers of power and might, bearers of truth and lies, grinned waiting for the young man in armour to incite. Whilst the woman, truer than the kings before her, had gone down on one knee, unbearable to watch—where she exposed her wounded pride, once lost, upon the altar.

She would have been awarded a medal, no—a trophy of substantial means, more than what was given to the grand kilties, to the passing fathers, the royals before her,

It was without some kind of inner curiosity that the three would face even a greater decision:

Who would take up the offer?

The man who had once enacted the destruction of an entire country, the woman whose power was lost through lies derived from her only living kin, and the man who left a country gone, hound though he be—begging for his honour; finding duty in his heart. Was there not a chalice to be sought? Where the immortals could place their secrets to those who would take it?

Not for the Garif, who were a race that never understand the power; because their kind could not bear steel against nature and the living; warriors they all were; they were not meant to wield; nor were these hidden occurian gems made for the common man whose intelligence only allowed so far.

Ashelia dropped down the displayed occurian sword, finalizing the action.

A fight was anticipated, pregnant in the air.

She was ready, not because Reddas was there, but because _he_ stood there, waiting for her.

"You are our saint, Ashelia," the gods were taunting, growing angrier, "you were the one—to weave history!"

Even as the air expanded, as it filled the room with colours of magick so ancient, she felt the twinge of bruised pain, the gentle mouth-sensuously closed, parted tentatively.

She didn't want to be what they wanted her to be—she could never be free that way; even as the mist tore at her eyes, whipped around her hair, growing paler in the glowing light, she tore her greedy gaze away from Rasler's imitation.

The stone must be cut, she said beneath her breath.

But the gods had plans, weaving their influence around their charges, where Cid was the most submissive to their charms, Gabranth kept to his path.

"A shame," he whispered, "you should have taken it, it was yours to take," and he drew close, breath becoming tattered in the Pharos's grip.

"Take up your blade, my lady, he means to challenge you." Reddas warned.

"And you…" Ashelia braced, tension rippled across her skin, eyeing her enemy languidly.

Gabranth returned the slow heat of her gaze, "then it is true…" he uttered low, indifferent.

She barely moved, feeling the physical thrill of the anticipated battle. Yes, she had placed the bitterness and revenge aside, buried them deep so they would never haunt or rule the rational. Instead, she was given a chance to fight in place of that cast off, bearing herself before him.

Irony came knocking at her door, and her used blade thrummed against her body.

"That I bear no grudge against my father's murderer?" she offered, but left no room for him to counter, "You're wrong, and you're right."

There was no room for friendship between them, nor will there ever be love lost—but the stone was being cut away, and their concentrated hate sent them turning to the pirate digging deep into the core.

Bright flashes met their eyes, and Ashe inwardly gasped, as time crawled on ether. She could not save him, because Reddas was too far into the cryst, steel halfway in.

Gabranth grit teeth and hardened his eyes against the onslaught of power being sliced; he was seeing again, the action of a man that had sent an entire population to empty ruin; seeing Zecht cut a jagged path across the power.

Power so great it blasted through--and Ashelia dropped easily on the floor from the intense flare; she was being hauled up, not understanding why--could hear Reddas scream to take her away from here.

Even as he was wont to back away, to leave the Princess, Gabranth wrapped his arm around Ashelia's midsection, hauling her between the pillars, where heavy debris started to fall.

He would do this because there was another time, another moment when he would face her and feel her vengeance. It was meant to be.

While she tried to move forward, an instinct—attempting to save, or try to lure Reddas away from catastrophe, there was only empty knowledge that his soul would move on. Like all the rest—like her father, Rasler, and the empty sorrow would drip like a continual downpour of numbing emotion.

The last she saw of Reddas, her eyes fighting to see—an explosion that left her semi-conscious—explosion of blood, stone, and tattered material trailing downward fast as a destroyed, bursting dam.

Not even magick could bring him back. She knew this, even as her heart swelled beneath Gabranth's armoured arm held fast, feeling the intrusive metal against her flesh—digging slight and distracting.

She could hear the cries of her friends stairs and stairs below; somewhere in the thick mist. Ashelia steeled herself, because there would be time to mourn when the cryst slumbered, taking with it, a man longing for eternal sleep.


	3. Fran, the cast, M rating

* * *

Fandom: FFXII  
Characters: the cast  
Title: Nymph  
_Rating: M_

* * *

Fran was used to this. Pulling her armour-- blackened over time, scraped over the metallic silver, decorating long shapely legs--off slow, sensual. She never did anything too rough—unless there was a berserk potion to swallow; spitting was unladylike. And even then, her nails were always painful on skin; they strained; pressured loins, causing hitched breaths and artificial climax. Over fifty years and the time went by on wings, while she was kissing each night, the hume who captured her attention for the last five years.

When a young viera was in the stage, ready to feel the embrace of womanhood; the nectar blossoming sweet between their thighs—whilst the muscle and bone strengthened, they were free to explore wondrous, inexplicable things.

As the last heavy metal clanked on the jutting rock, by the shore, she was allowed to pull free the last piece—white hair, shockingly above a heart shaped face—and the headdress released with deft fingers.

While, some speculation, most from curious humes who happened to see their race—all women, not a stitch of heavy testosterone clung _too much_--felt that there was some kind of foul play.

Questions begged, pleaded in their minds, because Ivalice was full of a world that demanded answers—secretive though they were kept and locked tight.

But everyone wanted to know, every seeq leered with want, bangaas turned their head because they were not allowed to mate with a hume; and the garif were interested only in warfare and garif alike: their horns—bone rack-- a stately flaunt of masculinity and metaphysical aspiration. Silent knowledge seeped into their culture: the bigger, the better--showing a young to pursue the outside world with a magical spear in hand, to transcend from youth garif to adulthood.

And when a viera was old enough, the spirit wood was calling—and she was allowed a time to discover without inhibition. It has been so long since Fran had had a female under her, pleasuring her skin and lips that she has been staring when the others were not looking: Penelo with her twisted hair, so bright they sparkled like the gold gems in the palace, barely touching shoulder—and inquisitive, innocent eyes staring back—all pleasant a sight.

Upon glancing to the other, with every other male who were fortunate to chance—Ashelia who walked with skirt, bright red—tightened around bottom so round, deliciously firm—she couldn't tear the darkened crimson of her eyes. Ashelia's thighs were wondrous; secured by royal fastenings-- elaborate metallic designs—these hugged, coveting skin deliriously through snow and heat.

It wasn't any wonder that when they pretended friendship without lust, serving unisex in the ocean, with very little else for the imagination. Fran, without modesty, for she was used to little else before the hume world demanded clothing even in the hottest region—bared breasts and buttocks to the demanding kiss of the gentle water.

And it wasn't any wonder when she was given a look her way from the little one, embarrassment sent spots along plumper cheeks; Penelo's eyes shied away in respect. While Ashe openly stared, not because she offered impertinence-- her curiosity needed sating. As vieras were given to less shame about the body, the women understood, while water lapped and licked at their hot skin.

It was not proper though, even to Fran--to teach a kiss without consent, though she could hear the soft intake of breath—sweetened in the air—and she could smell the scent between their thighs. Even humes gave off the most delicious perfume, a pleasurable beat pounded beneath.

Fran rose from the depths of the sea, goddess by every standard—the days sun gifting a sacrifice of golden treasure--on skin darkened cocoa brown, the white hair wet with the smell of the ocean, salt, and female, covering breasts and nipples. Where the eyes of two women, in awe of viera and those different from their kind, longed to know--to understand what made the beauty of the woodland creatures who could feel the mist and power before birth.

Shimmering like a pinpoint of light and harmony from ocean depth to surface, blue and gold colours, the sand stuck to the delicate ankles—giving design where once armour protected.

They left the water to dry, to the land like nymphs from the sea, and even from the distance—the men took turns looking, staring without trying to appear indecent. All respectable; not openly mouthed as almost Vaan was near to bursting. Shut up closed by Balthier's hand, gentle on the bottom lip, saying with precise cultured accent from Archades, "bite your tongue, boy; viera's should be something you're used to by now."

But Vaan wasn't always used to such things, even as his own groin prickled beneath his sweat and pants, feeling the hot pressure of Balthier's skin on his. Balthier had not released his hand from the boy's surprisingly muscled skin for a time.

Vaan wondered why even when his eyes were greedily soaking up the visions of goddesses from the sea—his own hand close, lingering close to Balthier; the heat sparked and expanded. Yet, their eyes never left the ocean's edge.


	4. Penelo, Noah

* * *

**Fandom: FFXII  
Characters: Penelo, Noah.**

* * *

Penelo laughs, her dimpled smile shows small teeth, and she's pointing to something, "You've got something on your beard...um, there!" She reaches over to wipe away the offending piece of..._cotton?_

"I do not think," he attempts to say, flustered, hot under the dry heat of the desert, "that you need to," he purses his lips, while the girl's blue wide eyes stares up at him, her finger grazing over his already two day growth of beard.

They both watch as a single piece of cloth, of cotton, float daintily by in slow motion.

"It's that stuff we passed,those white pastures over by the hill," she allows herself a small giggle, pleased at his discomfort.

He raises a fine brow at her, "Yes, if I were in Archades I would find myself a place of business where I may get a barber, a haircut, shave, and attempt to be more presentable." He grimly feels the rough edges of his jaw, "I rather like it." he finally says.

She on the other hand leans back; the heels of her feet pressured against the sand; hands now safely placed and fingers entwined behind the small of her back, "I do too. You look, almost as if you were born into it."

"Really?" He says, a light brow quirking up, presenting his light eyes full of curiousity and mirth to her, "that would have frightened the wits out of my mother..."

She almost giggles, "well at least people would have been able to tell you and your brother apart."

"Aye. My mother was the only one that could."

Penelo looks at him, apparently musing on this, "I wonder...what it would be like to have twins," she pauses, looks at him tentatively, "well, not for _me_, I mean...yes, _I do want_ to have children, um, someday, in the far_ far_ future...if we have a future!" her eyes open so wide at the way she trips at it, "Just me..but not alone, I mean,_ I _can't have a baby or babies without a partner, now can't I..."

She shuffles her feet, and bites her lip, kicks the sand beneath her sandles, watches it shift, "Never mind, I won't say anymore. I'll just put my foot into my mouth."

He chuckles, a dark rich chuckle that makes her look at him through narrowed eyes, supposing suspicion; but he knows that she's playing with him, because she has been playful with him for so many days now, "I understand..."

"Yeah..._right."_

He finds that when she's rolling her eyes at him, that it is an endearing gesture. A familiarity between them, when she scolds him or says something that even surprises her.

There's almost a nervous reaction to her words. Her hair shines bright, scalp feeling hot, beneath the sultry heat. And too close, there's also a piece of cloth--very white--clinging to the ends of her pigtail.

He wants to reach over, but he refrains.

Instead, Noah stretches a smile, acknowledging her boldness, strangely amused by the nervous reaction. He's showing white teeth when he smiles; and she feels herself growing hot; her cheeks suffusing; the high colour which lay below the dark lines of her blue eyes looking very much like the bloom of a cactus red flower.

There's a thick silence that rents the air, and he watches as she lifts herself--the balls of her toes pressured against the sandy dune of the ground beneath them. A wind has swept up, caught the distracting piece of white cotton, releasing it, and they both watch for long moments.

Their eyes are mesmerised by the action, the way it lifts and sways, gliding gently on the wings of the wind. Noah finds this odd, as he is never the man to make even a passing eye to small insignificant things. Somehow, he had forgotten to stop and take the time to breathe, to appreciate the smallest things in life...all the things that are there for him to take, to reach out...

He suddenly finds the need to touch her, and he does so, laying the heat of his hand, palm to the open air, the side of skin flat against her cheek, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. He is pleased she does not find this offensive, and pleased all the more when she closes her eyes.

Noah's time with her, as he has been witnessing with pleasure, was that Penelo's always been bold, if not more passionate than most young girls. He watches through half-lidded eyes, the way she gently moves, taking the moment to turn her head, blond locks straying across his hand from the hot wind. He feels her lips, barely kissing him there, where the skin is touching her face. And Noah's caressing her in the way a man caresses his woman.

"Noah..." She whispers.

From a distance, even the sky has unfolded upon itself, and the blistering heat moves away as the breeze from the sea pushes against the sand and couple standing upon the dunes. A shade passes by, where a shadow, long and stretching lends a hand to umbrella their growing attraction.

* * *


	5. GabranthNoah, Ashe: Aftermath

**Part II: One on One.  
FFXII: Original; slightly AU.**  
**Rating: Pg-13**  
**Characters: **Gabranth;Noah, Ashe  
Summary: After Reddas's death, the two of them were left to give vent to what would be an inevitable and discomforting confrontation.  
A/N: this piece has less metaphors, less poetic language than the first one.

* * *

xx

It wouldn't die down. The sun cryst's might and power was immense, taking forever to fade. She stood there, almost in shock, her hands flat against the thick glass, spread out-palm whitened from the pressure. She was breathing hard, knew that she had been rescued, in this most unseemly manner. The heavy draft of her hot breath left marks of moist steam on the glass; her nose, and mouth too close as if she would meld into the wall of the ship. But as the Archadian model airship advanced away, Ashe could only watch in mute horror at what Reddas had done; and in another moment, she would, perhaps turn to her rescuer and feel the storm of hate inch its way to her heart. Where once, not so long ago, she was left to give all her dark emotion to die; at the moment, where her mind still clung to the memory of the pirate, trying desperately to remember what his death stood for; a forceful yet unwilling emotion was persistent, making her wince.

She watched as the last vision of destructive energy faded, the white clouds had closed in, obscuring her view. When there was nothing else to see, muscles within her tensed, braced for it.

"Where are you taking me?" It was the first thing she uttered, didn't want to wait for him to speak. Her eyes, didn't want to look at him, it was blasphemy to her to want to give him the satisfaction of how she felt. So her body did not yield--her palms still flat against the glass.

He was not far, "To your broken kingdom, where else?"

She finally turned, slow, "Why? You could have left me to die like Reddas." The sound of her voice, tremulous, and it irritated her that it shook; there was nothing in the world of Ivalice that she would show weakness to this man. This was the man who slew her father, who took everything away from her. She hated this, this feeling of vulnerability where she would be damned to give thanks to this murderer. It was then that she couldn't help herself-she had to look into that hated face, stare into the dark pools of destruction.

"He was a fool," he paused, regarding her body language, all the hate swirling back into her wet eyes; they were cold, guarded, even through the moist heat---the fires were returning, "I had considered for a moment to leave you, but what good would that do? My revenge would be all for nothing. You're the one who holds my brother's heart, the key to destroying the Empire, everything that I've come to hate."

"You're quite confused." She stared back, voice low, "you have already damaged too much. You've taken my father's life, your brother's dignity and honour. You have left him with nothing! You have left me to hide in disgrace; you with the same face that holds the man who has given so much to my family's kingdom; you are the reason why my Knights were left to hide-all of them dead save for one! You're the reason why my kingdom is in ruins; and you-.." she spat out, "are the reason why my husband died!"

That last part wasn't technically true, but she wanted to believe it.

"And you, Ashelia B'Nargin, give too much power to me." His lips curled; his eyes hard as steel; and Ashe was left momentarily stunned at the differences of the brother's countenance and expressions.

Her body couldn't stop shaking, so violent was the overwhelming hate that crept back, "You chose! You chose to betray your brother! Everything you did! Was because of you! How could I---?" She shook, wanting to strike the face of the man standing there; Ashe breathed, too hard, too fast, her mouth partly open, her eyes scanning through the interior-wanting to see, how many were there here, with them?

He obviously took note of every movement she made, "You're fortunate, Ashelia B'Nargin, there is no one here but you and I."

"Fortunate?!" She grit teeth, eyes snapping back at him, "You should have died there, not Reddas! You should have died!"

"You might get your wish, but not today." It was said so nonchalantly, so careless that it stung her eyes and burned her ears.

There had been so much venom in her voice, so much pain; everything that she wanted to feel, when she had thought it was Basch that had betrayed her kingdom was now unraveling itself into this man. This imposter. And now, she was pouring all her hatred; all her energy into him. If she had not tried to rein in her composure, as much as possible-her heaven's mystical fury would strike him where he stood.

He backed away, the expression on his face had softened, "Like I mentioned, you give me too much power." It was galling to see him disregard her outburst; it was infuriating to watch him turn away.

Even as she regretted doing so, her movement was quicker than her rationale; her hand suddenly gripped his armoured arm to twist him towards her, "LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU, YOU BASTARD!"

The way his lip curled, feeling the cold armour seep through her skin, he bent towards her-his eyes furious as hers, "Why would I look too long at a whore?"

That was when she reached out; instinct drove her-to where his face would meet her palm-but it never came to be. He was already gripping her wrist, twisting it hard that she cried out in pain.

"Don't." Gabranth was too close, voice low and menacing, "You wouldn't want us to continue our fight here, would you? This is not exactly the place."

She swallowed, tears had found their way past her cheeks, and she cursed inwardly for the weakness. There was just so much riding on her tortured emotion; the death of her friend, the deaths of those long gone tore at her; it galled her that he was right.

She was giving too much to him.

Even hearing her ragged breath, they stood there, his ungloved hand still wrapped around her smaller wrist, that she had ignored the pain. When he did not release her too soon, she was left to clench her teeth, "Let go of me." It was a croaked whisper.

His eyes, absent of hate, replaced by detachment and condemnation, searched hers, "Are you going to be a good girl?"

"How dare you!?" Her chest heaved, "I'd never, never give you the satisfaction."

"I wouldn't care for any." He implied, his eyes grazed her face in that almost disgusted fashion.

Gabranth finally let go, pushing her hand away, and she was left biting her lip too hard to stop from crying out, hating this. Immediately, she tried to soothe her wrist, feeling the blood slowly come back. There would be a bruise, she knew; her small amount of potions were still somewhere in the tiny niche of her belt. Ashe tasted her blood; the salty metallic taste leaving an aftertaste.

His brilliant cold eyes watched her warily; he sighed as if defeated. Gabranth left her alone for a bit; she heard him go to the cockpit, to check on the auto-pilot. As she watched him return, he was pulling his armour off, the sound of the heavy gear clanked on the table by the wall; the interior of the ship was incredibly small and hardly fit for more than two people.

When he was free of the uncomfortable gear, wearing only fine Archadian clothing, it was then that Gabranth turned his eyes to her, "We may have to wait a while in here, the jagd here, is incredibly strong, and though this ship has the advancement to keep us afloat without being destroyed; it is the force of the suncryst's impact that keeps us reaching to our destination with haste."

She was still rubbing her wrist, but her breathing had calmed, "We're stuck here, for the time being?" though it sounded hollow, Ashe was extremely tired to argue; the emotional whirlwind she had gone through had drained her for the time being. She would have to accumulate more of it when the time came.

"I'm afraid so." It was little more than a sigh, as if he was not pleased with the outcome of their forced company.

Ashe walked to the small chair that faced him, sat down quietly. It was the only place to sit in this circular chamber, save for the driver's seat. She looked over there, where the glass showed the outside: it was filled with thick, dangerous mist that the hume eye could see. There was something out there. Even they both knew it; this was a wise decision to remain where they were at.

"I will tolerate your company for this time being." Ashe said this, her royal blood still screamed for this man to submit to her.

"I had to make do for a long time, Ashelia B'Nargin, it comes as second nature to me. I suppose I'm quite pleased to see you cut down so low."

"Your satisfaction will only be short lived." It was smug, she knew, and she hoped that her expression showed much of the same thing, "it's my revenge now. You've had your chance."

She wouldn't utter his name; it burned hot acid in her mouth, singed her tongue.

He turned away from her, his elbows on his lap, as his hands clasped together; Gabranth's exhale was ragged, his posture leaning forward there on the chair. It was with a mixed reaction that Ashe was feeling. He didn't like looking at her too long he had said, but she was left with the inner need for him to look at her. As if this would prove how much she desired his death.

Where was her forgiveness back on the Cataract? She bit her lip again-- with less force-- turning away, looking up at the small enclosure. The sting in her eyes, forced her to think about the things that meant most to her-everything that drove her to be strong.

It was with some forced attention that she heard the deep timbre of his voice addressing her.

"I'll give you that, Ashelia B'Nargin of Dalmasca...for my brother at least. Not for you."

* * *


End file.
